A STEED! A STEED!
A steed! a steed! of matchless speed!
A sword of metal keene!
Al else to noble hearts is drosse—
Al else on earth is meane.
The neighing of the war-horse proude,
The rowling of the drum,
The clangour of the trumpet loude—
Be soundes from heaven that come.
And, oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
When as their war-cryes swelle,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rouse a fiend from hell.
Then mounte! Then mounte! brave gallants all,
And don your helms amain;
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honour, call
Up to the field againe;
No shrewish tear shall fill our eye
When the sword hilt's in our hand;
Heart-whole we'll parte and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land.
Let piping swaine and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling aye;
Our business is like to men to fighte
And like to Heroes, die!
Motherwell's Ancient Minstrelsy
(Author unknown).